


in blowing it wide open

by youcouldmakealife



Series: in taking it apart [12]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike should say no, but he doesn’t want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in blowing it wide open

Mike has to grab his coat on the way out of the bar. When he gets outside, Liam’s already out there, arms tucked around himself. It’s ten fucking degrees. Mike knows it may not be that cold in Detroit, but it isn’t exactly balmy there either.

Mike offers his coat, and Liam looks sideways at him.

“Take it,” Mike says. “I parked a couple blocks away.”

Liam takes it, ducking his head and pulling it on.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mike says, because it’s freezing, and all he’s got is a flannel shirt. Better him than Liam, though, who’s got a long-sleeved Red Wings t-shirt on and nothing else. 

“Takes one to know one,” Liam says through chattering teeth.

“Are you actually _five_?” Mike asks, and reconsiders his life and his choices for at least the tenth time since he left the bathroom.

Liam grins at him, sunshiney and shit-eating, and Mike rolls his eyes at Liam and at himself, leads the way to his truck, the couple blocks a lot colder when the wind’s cutting through his shirt, the crunch of his boots through the firm packed snow sending a chill through him. There’s no time to waffle about whether it’s a good idea or not, getting in the truck with Liam, when the truck is out of the wind and has heating, so his concerns wait until he’s pulling out, looking sideways at Liam, who’s drowning a little in his coat, cheeks pink, face half hidden behind the fur ruff.

The radio’s on low, generic classic rock that Liam immediately takes offense to, of fucking course, and starts fiddling with the dash. Mike considers smacking his hand away, but that’s too fucking familiar, isn’t it, practically routine in Edmonton, Liam messing with Mike’s radio until every fucking station saved was some top 40 bullshit. Liam is basically constitutionally incapable of getting in a car without messing with the radio.

Once the shit coming out of his speakers is up-tempo and bouncy enough for Liam’s liking, he leans back, giving Mike a slightly sulky look, like he’s upset Mike didn’t bother to stop him. Like it ever worked; Mike would slap his hand, Liam would pull back, and then twenty seconds later, there he’d be, fiddling a-fucking-gain. Mike’s trying to pick his battles, here, since he’s pretty sure he’s going back home to fuck his ex...whatever Liam is, and that’s so much stupidity right there that he needs to draw the line _somewhere_ , just for the sake of his sanity.

It should probably be uncomfortable. Neither of them’s really saying anything, unless you count Liam singing half-under his breath, still noticeably off-key even at that volume. That’d driven Mike nuts, Liam’s firm insistence on singing along to whatever crap he put on, not caring that he couldn’t hit the notes, because he’d would probably explode if he didn’t get his restless energy out every way that he could. It’s not like Mike _likes_ it now, his voice would probably make dogs howl, but it’s familiar, feels like driving to practice, Mike silent and Liam somehow chirpy despite the fact he’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes. Or driving back, with it impossible to tell they’d been bag-skated by the way Liam kept on.

Mike pulls into his driveway, and Liam looks around curiously.

“It’s nothing special,” Mike says, because it isn’t, much, two-stories, decent neighbourhood, two car park. He’s got plenty money in the bank, but he’s not going to throw it around for a house that’ll only echo around him.

He parks in the garage, no use tempting fate and snow, and Liam fiddles with a sanding sponge that was left on a worktable while Mike unlocks the door. “You even know what you’re holding?” he asks dryly when Liam rubs his thumb over the surface, frowning at the grit against his skin.

“You’re such a _guy_ ,” Liam says, and when Mike gives him a pointed look for _that_ idiotic statement, he throws the sponge at him, missing by a good foot.

“Stick to hockey,” Mike says, and Liam gives him the finger before following him inside.

It’s almost easy to ignore Liam behind him, padding quietly into the kitchen where Mike’s turning the lights on, because of course he’s a good Canadian boy, taking off his shoes right away. Mike won’t mistake that for presumptuous; Liam’s a fucking brat, but his mom forced some manners into her son. 

“You want a beer?” Mike asks.

“I thought you don’t drink,” Liam says.

“I do actually have visitors,” Mike says. That’s mostly untrue, he pretty much doesn’t, unless they’re forced upon him, but his brother left some beer the last time he was here, and it’s just been pushed to the back of the fridge and forgotten.

“I’m fine,” Liam says, kind of quiet, and Mike finally looks at him. He’s shucked Mike’s coat somewhere, probably the floor, since he’s a fucking slob. He’s closer than Mike thought he was, just far enough that Mike can’t feel him, and he’s got his bottom lip between his teeth. Mike can’t decide if he’s nervous or if he remembered what that would do to Mike, the knee jerk desire to bite it _for_ him. Probably both. Liam’s always had Mike pretty well pegged, at least when it came down to the things that would drive him crazy, good or bad. “You going to kiss me, old man?” he asks, and Mike wishes he’d kept the lights down low, because it looks like Liam’s never going to learn how to avoid spelling out everything across his face.

“You want me to?” Mike asks, gruff.

Liam snorts, “You’re not supposed to be the dumb one,” he says, and when Mike steps into his space, tilts his chin up, half-helpful, half defiant. He’s got a challenging look on his face, one Mike hasn’t seen much of, at least not off the ice, but when Mike raises a hand to thumb the edge of his jaw, defined, a scratch of stubble under his thumb that Liam couldn’t manage before, Liam’s eyes fall shut.

Mike swallows hard. He shouldn’t have this, he’s not supposed to have this, but his mother didn’t bring up an idiot, and she didn’t bring up an ingrate either, so he leans down, catches Liam’s mouth, a little awkward, until Liam shifts up on his toes to line them up right, the angle never right when they’re standing, better on a bed, a couch, but Mike doesn’t plan on moving right yet. He can taste beer, bitter on Liam’s tongue, a punch in the gut, another thing he can’t have anymore, but Liam’s fucked that all up, Liam fucks up every rule Mike ever sets for himself, it’s probably a hobby of his, so he’s got the taste of beer in his mouth and Liam’s fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt, before sliding under, his hand a little cold against Mike’s side.

It’s almost intoxicating, the slide of Liam’s tongue against his, dirty, a prelude to something, Mike hauling Liam in closer, his hands on Liam’s ass. Mike’s got a leg between Liam’s, and he can feel him, half-hard, hot, even through denim, Liam’s hips hitching slightly into the press of Mike’s thigh. Liam’s hand drifts from its loose clutch of Mike’s hip, his fingers sure, practiced, on the button of Mike’s jeans, and Mike pulls back even as Liam makes a protesting noise against his mouth, tries to put at least a grain of space between them.

“We should go upstairs,” Mike mumbles, half into Liam’s mouth, since Liam hasn’t taken his retreat without objection, tugging Mike back in even as Mike starts speaking.

“Or we could stay here,” Liam says, and bites down on Mike’s bottom lip, just enough to sting.

Mike pulls away properly then, ignores Liam’s petulant look. “I’m too old to fuck in a kitchen,” he says. “You have a game tomorrow.”

“You’re no fucking fun,” Liam says, and turns on his heel before going upstairs, like he has any idea where he’s going. Mike stays back a couple steps, lets Liam open the door to the bathroom and a closet, pressing his lips together to keep from saying anything, until Liam finally lands on Mike’s bedroom and gives him a triumphant look. 

“Good job,” Mike says, and Liam gives him the finger before walking in, already stripping his shirt off, because he’s never really been one to waste time when he could be having sex instead. Mike gets started on his own shirt, because if he doesn’t, Liam will, and Liam has a pretty firm hate-on for all the buttons on Mike’s shirts and takes pleasure in destroying Mike’s clothes. It’s a good fucking thing Mike’s mother taught him how to sew buttons back on, or Mike would have been a lot less amused by it. 

Liam’s down to skin by the time Mike gets started on his jeans, and the change in him is even more obvious. He’d always been tightly muscled, lean belly, surprisingly broad shoulders, tight waist, but now he’s broader everywhere, the definition Mike could see even with his clothes on more stark. He doesn’t have the awkward grace of a boy anymore, hard in places, soft in others, baby fat stubbornly clinging no matter what he did. He’s honed now, a weapon, though more of a cannonball than a knife, despite his size. He looks like a fucking hockey player. Not that he ever didn’t, but now it’s practically textbook. Mike’s faintly embarrassed to stand in comparison to him, though it’s not exactly surprising that no more training means he can’t keep the tone. Liam doesn’t look disappointed, at least, just impatient, scowling when Mike pauses on his jeans, the button already having been helpfully undone for him.

Liam reaches for him the second Mike gets close enough to the bed to be reached, pulls Mike on top of him, hard enough that Mike has to catch himself awkwardly on his elbow to avoid dropping his full weight on him. Mike’s had Liam beneath him a hundred times by now, probably, but it’s different, the way Liam fits against him is different, and it feels like a bit of a sucker punch to realize that.

If nothing else, Liam’s mouth is familiar, the taste of beer long gone, and Mike finds himself lost in it, the reassurance of it, while his hands map a body that isn’t familiar anymore. Liam’s hard against him, silken hot now that the layers have disappeared, hips hitching again, searching for contact. Mike pulls back, just enough to see Liam’s blown dark eyes, the wet redness of his mouth, two more familiars. He’d be fine with Liam rubbing off against his thigh, if he wanted, fuck, he’d be fine with _anything_ Liam wanted, right now, as long as he was somehow involved in it, but it’s always polite to ask, and he’s always been conscientious about that in bed, if nowhere else.

“What do you want?” Mike asks. He wants it to be up to Liam, but he also doesn’t know what he wants, beyond Liam, got as far as getting his hands on him and now he’s overwhelmed with the options. 

Liam ducks his face into the column of Mike’s throat, sucks a stinging bite into his skin. It’ll mark or it won’t. Mike sort of hopes it does, but it’ll probably fade before he comes. “Fuck me,” Liam says into Mike’s skin.

“You have a game tomorrow,” Mike says, which is stupid, because god knows it never stopped them before, and if it ever messed up Liam’s skating, he never let it show. Liam looks at him then, sort of disbelieving, which is fair, and Mike isn’t going to argue this if it’s what Liam wants, god knows he’s thought about it enough times in the last couple years, got off to the tight clutch of Liam, the way he’d make breathless wanting sounds, the way Mike could knock the words right out of him, press him down and just _use_ him. He’d feel shitty after he came, usually, but it never stopped him jerking off to Liam the next time.

“You not up to it?” Liam asks, practically showing his hand with how obvious that fucking play is, but Mike isn’t going to argue for the sake of arguing, he wants this too much, so he rolls off Liam, pulling the bedside table drawer open. Pulling lube out, by rote, and then pausing, because for the year before shit went bad, they usually fucked bare, Liam so into the idea of it that he’d begged for it, Mike so into it that he’d given in, eventually, when it was pretty fucking clear they were both in it for awhile, at least, and crystal clear that Liam was just about the most faithful teenager to ever live. Or just invested in a sure thing.

It’s not relevant. Mike’s got a couple condoms in there as well, but he’s pretty sure he’d just thrown them in with the lube when he’d moved in, and that they’ve been around since him and Liam were using condoms. He’s not sure what’d be worse, saying that he doesn’t have any condoms, or saying that his condoms are fucking expired, some pathetic portrait of life without Liam. Not that he’s been fucking pining, but it looks bad.

“I’m out of condoms,” Mike says, finally, because that’s probably the best possible way to phrase it. 

“I’ve got one in my wallet,” Liam offers.

“Seriously?” Mike asks. “Has no one ever taught you anything about condoms?” Mike’s pretty sure _he_ gave Liam a proper lecture on condom storage, never mind anyone else.

“I put it in tonight,” Liam says. “It’s good.”

Mike’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, whether Liam walked into that bar fully expecting to fuck Mike, whether this is some sort of, what, fucking _catharsis_ or something, getting Mike out of his system, or whether Liam just goes through them often enough. Doesn’t really want to know which it is. Doesn’t think he’d like the answer either way. Isn’t going to stop either way, not unless Liam says to. 

“Get it,” he says, instead, and Liam goes through his jeans, comes up with the brand Mike always uses, though, luckily, not similarly expired. He sprawls out on the bed, knees tucked up, slightly, and Mike can’t help but kiss the bony knob of his knee, hit by a wave of deja vu so fucking strong it’s staggering. He can’t even count how many times Liam’s sprawled like that in front of him, he likes getting fucked any way; on his belly Mike can fuck him the deepest, and when he rides Mike he gets to control the pace and drive Mike insane, but his favorite’s always been on his back, legs hitched up around Mike’s waist or over his shoulders. He tucks a pillow under himself while Mike’s slicking his fingers, and when Mike slides down the bed he slings a leg over Mike’s shoulder, easy, hips lifting slightly when Mike slides a finger in him, cautious, though Mike’s barely had a chance to take a breath before Liam’s urging him for another.

He’s as reactive as he’s always been, quiet, hitching breaths, noises Mike still isn’t sure he knows he’s making, pushing back into the press of Mike’s fingers, heel knocking against Mike’s shoulder blade when Mike rubs over his prostate, insistent. Mike would be happy here, just lying between Liam’s legs, getting him off with his mouth and his fingers, knowing every fucking trick to break him right open, to make him fucking _scream_ , but Liam’s hot and tight around his fingers, tighter still when Mike gets a third finger into him, presses his mouth against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, Liam going tense against the rub of Mike’s beard against his skin, and all Mike wants is to get inside him.

Mike manages the condom one-handed, even if he has to use his fucking teeth to get the foil open, which he’s pretty sure is _not_ appropriate use of condoms, he’s a fucking hypocrite, what’s new, and gets lube over half the bed, but it’s worth it just to pull his fingers out of Liam just as he’s guiding himself in, the movement of Liam following, trying to keep Mike’s fingers in him pushing him right onto his cock. Liam opens easy, sweet, trying to pull Mike closer even as Mike’s pushing into him, and all Mike can see is the line of his throat as his head tips back, his tendons standing out, hand white-knuckled on Mike’s bicep.

He goes slow, no telling when Liam last did this, the less he thinks about it the better, and he’s got a game tomorrow anyway, Mike isn’t going to fuck him over for that. Not that Liam lets him stay slow, not for long, anyway, asking for harder, faster, both tripping off his tongue and in the way his hand goes almost bruising on Mike, his other leg curling around Mike’s waist to pull him deeper. He does his best, but he can’t help but fall into it, lets Liam goad him, until he’s got a hand braced against the headboard, another tucked around Liam’s head so he won’t bang it, since he’s not bothering to brace himself, one hand still white-knuckled on Mike’s skin and the other tight on his cock, brows furrowed enough that Mike would almost think he was in pain, if he didn’t know any better.

Liam comes first, streaking across his wrist, his belly, and Mike slows down, until it’s a slow grind, more than anything. Liam likes getting fucked, after, likes where it floats between good and too much, but Mike sure as shit isn’t going to keep going without Liam’s say-so.

When Liam’s come down a bit, he opens his eyes. “Why’d you stop,” he says, flat, bossy, and Mike can’t help but huff a laugh, Liam’s legs tucked around his waist, loose, when Mike leans down to kiss him, Liam sighing against his mouth when Mike fucks into him again, slow this time, and staying slow, because Mike doesn’t want this to stop, he doesn’t want to mindlessly chase his pleasure, just wants to stay in the tight hot clutch of Liam’s body as long as it’s possible to.

He has to come, eventually, mouth against Liam’s neck, the salt of his sweat on Mike’s tongue, and then he can’t stay in Liam as long as he’d like, pulls out reluctantly, tying off the condom before lobbing it at his wastebasket.

Liam’s flushed and drowsy, the familiar well-fucked face, skin hot when he presses his cheek against Mike’s, pulling him back down until Mike’s practically blanketing him, Liam taking most of his weight.

Mike’s gotten drowsy himself, the heat of Liam, the slow pace of his breathing doing enough to lull him.

“Can I sleep here?” Liam asks, when Mike’s started to drift. 

Mike should say no. There’s no way Liam doesn’t have curfew, and Mike has already fucked up enough, letting the kid come back with him. Mike should say no, but he doesn’t want to. Has Liam sprawled out on his bed for the first time in years and he wants to keep him there. “Fine,” he says, trying to sound begrudging, probably failing pretty miserably. He rolls off Liam, then, so he doesn’t crush the kid, and falls asleep with Liam curled into him, body running hot, hand trapping Mike’s against the hard line of his stomach. 

Mike wakes up when it’s still dark, doesn’t understand why until the bed shifts beside him and Liam leans over him, back in yesterday’s clothes. “Hey,” Liam says, soft, early morning the only time he’s quiet. “I have to go if I want to get in without getting busted. I’ve got a cab waiting outside.” 

“Okay,” Mike says, groggy, as Liam’s thumb brushes over his shoulder. This feels familiar, so familiar, like every practice Liam went to that Mike couldn’t, minor injury or illness or, in the end, that fucking concussion, like every morning Liam woke him up like he somehow knew that if Mike woke up without him there, it’d hit like a lead ball to the chest. Every single morning that Liam woke him up, Mike wanted to strip him right down and pull him back into bed, and he wants that now more than anything. It’s a stupid fucking wish.

“We head out after the game,” Liam says, almost regretful sounding, and Mike doesn’t know what his face does, it’s too early and he’s too close to still asleep to be able to school it worth a damn, but Liam leans down the rest of the way, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth, before he sits back up.

“I missed you,” Liam says, so soft Mike isn’t sure he was even supposed to hear it, reproachful, which is fair, because this is Mike’s doing, there wasn’t an inch of his decision that Liam didn’t fight tooth and nail against. There’s something frayed in his voice, close to snapping, and maybe Mike wasn’t supposed to hear it, but Liam sure as hell meant it. 

“Yeah,” Mike says. Liam leaves with one last squeeze to the muscle of Mike’s shoulder, and once Mike hears the front door shut, he knuckles his eyes. Should get up and lock his door. Should have managed something more than vague agreement, or said nothing at all. He exhales, shaky, and then tries to get back to sleep, because he needs to not think for a fucking minute.

It works, Mike guesses, because when he opens his eyes again the room’s light, and his clock brightly informs him it’s two PM. Mike doesn’t know the last time he actually slept through a morning, discounting when he’d try to sleep a migraine off. His phone buzzes in his jeans, and Mike has to get up to grab it, finds a text from Liam, _wish me luck ;)_. It’s an hour until the game, and Mike knows the schedule, maybe not the Red Wings’ specifically, but figures he probably knows where Liam is, knows he’s going to put his phone away and out of his head until they win or lose. Realizes, suddenly, that he took the kid home and opened him up and blew this shit wide open all over again, that this is Liam throwing a gauntlet down with a fucking smiley. 

That he tells the kid right now that last night was stupid, and a mistake, and that it won’t happen again. Or that he doesn’t, that he wishes him luck, and Liam continues to send terribly spelled texts that hurt Mike’s brain and his fucking soul. And maybe the next time he’s Minnesota he comes right to Mike’s door, and Mike gets him back in his bed, plants a hand between his shoulderblades and fucks him into the mattress then makes them both sandwiches after, with Liam in one of Mike’s shirts and his own boxer briefs, sitting on the counter instead of a chair because he’s a wildling, ankles knocking against the cabinets. Trying to filch ingredients, watching Mike’s hands work, all sleepy eyed and well-fucked and satisfied. That it will keep happening, and Mike will resign himself to waiting for those times, Liam blowing in and out of his life, his space, all his restless attention on Mike until he’s gone again.

That he stops this now or he doesn’t stop it at all, because he doesn’t have it in him to hurt the kid again. Doesn’t have it in him to break his own fucking heart again, doesn’t think he could do it, not without flinching. That he stops this now or he puts it in Liam’s hands, to do what he will, because Liam’s more responsible than him in the only way it really counts, and Mike loves him, and Mike’s fucking sick of it, of loving him and not having him and not being able to blame anyone but himself for it, sickly grateful for any sign that Liam’s better off without him. But Mike’s selfish. He tried so hard not to be, where Liam was concerned, but he is, and he’d rather have the kid miserable than be miserable without him, and if that makes him a son-of-a-bitch, he can’t make himself care anymore.

He could easily delete that text, three words and a fucking smiley, who _does_ that, delete it and go on with his life and let Liam go on with him. It’d probably leave the both of them better off in the long run.

Finally sends, _Good luck._ , to be received whether it’s a win or a loss, whether or not the luck’s sour. Could send it with a fucking smiley, or even just an exclamation mark, but he isn’t that kind of guy, is never going to be that kind of guy, not even for Liam, who’s the fucking personification of sunshine. Thinks Liam won’t mind anyway. Thinks Liam might just know what he means.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last structured story of Mike and Liam. I have a great deal of future canon up on my [tumblr](youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com), and that's where it shall stay. Regardless, this series proved that peer pressure is totally effective; use it for good, not evil, friends.


End file.
